


Scientific Theory

by slothprincess



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Ending, Brainwashing, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Now with Good Ending, Stockholm Syndrome, Uncomfortable Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothprincess/pseuds/slothprincess
Summary: Perceptor awakens in chains to a very eager Brainstorm convinced he's someone else. By the end of Brainstorm's captivity, he might just be convinced as well.





	1. In which Perceptor awakes

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I'd try my hand at writing something dark. Tags will be updated as I go along, but please keep in mind this is a story about someone kidnapping someone and basically trying to brainwash them, so it goes some weird, dark places and might not be for everybody.

Perceptor blinked blearily. His helm throbbed with a malicious energy and remembering the last few groons was proving especially difficult. Groaning, he attempted to roll over, only to be yanked back down by the heavy embrace of a metal chain wrapped securely around him. He jerked again, rattling the chain.  
      
“What on Cybertron?”  
  
Ignoring the painful pulsations in his helm, Perceptor angled his gaze down. He was strapped to a medical berth, chains extending past his pedes, while a thick alloy band fastened around the circumference of his waist. He gave another test rattle. Firmly secured.  
      
He frowned, recalling the previous night. The crew had been celebrating a particularly advantageous victory to their mission with liberal doses of high-grade. Perceptor, himself, had abstained, of course, choosing instead to withdraw to the labs, hoping to log a few more test results before the next orn. Beyond that, an impenetrable fog had settled in his mind. Mentally marking off brute strength as a probable escape tactic, Perceptor continued his analysis of the situation.  
      
With his mobility limited, he settled for scanning the room. It was probably too much to hope his captor had left a key nearby. But he’d been surprised by enemy stupidity before. Though quite small, the vast majority of the room was swathed in a heavy darkness, silhouettes of heavy machinery lined the walls, shrouded with cobwebs of misuse. A single counter appeared to have been wiped down, suspiciously free of the subtle layer of grime.  
      
Some kind of abandoned workshop, only recently back in use. Judging by the architecture, an almost 65.4% chance he was still aboard the Lost Light then. More than likely the bottom deck if it had escaped Ultra Magnus’ notorious cleaning purges. Before he had time for further rumination a voice cut through the shadows.  
      
“Oh, you’re awake?”  
      
Perceptor started, helm slamming back against the berth’s metal frame with a reverberating clash. Primus! Like he wasn’t already nursing the migraine to end all migraines. With mild difficulty he focused an optic on the mysterious newcomer, brows raising in surprise.  
      
“Brainstorm?”  
      
Thank, Primus! A familiar face. Perceptor exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, shoulders relaxing. Sure, Brainstorm was flaky, megalomaniac, and a bit scientifically negligent, but knowing they were on the same team had always brought Perceptor immense comfort. Not that he would ever admit it. Primus, no!  
      
Brainstorm cast him an appraising eye, vents puffed out in thinly-veiled anticipation. Perceptor could feel the waves of euphoric excitement radiating off him even across the room, field bubbling. Perceptor resisted rolling his optics. Of course Brainstorm would be excited. He was probably taking Perceptor’s bindings versus the lack of his own as proof of scientific superiority. How exasperating.  
      
“I didn’t think you’d be up so soon,” Brainstorm chirped, fiddling with one of the ankle restraints, “You know how finicky dosages are, right, Quark?”  
      
Perceptor froze, relief at seeing his friend draining.  
Brainstorm continued, laugh echoing, as he worked studiously tightening a weak link.  
      
“You have to be very—” Perceptor’s spark plummeted, “—very,” he tightened another ring, “precise.”  
      
“Brainstorm, What are you doing?”  
          
It would be hardly prudent to jump to conclusions. Still the metaphorical alarm bells were ringing. There were plenty of logical reasons for being tied down. Several he enjoyed immensely.  Though he doubted any of those reasons intersected with Brainstorm of all mechs. Perhaps he’d indulged in a little high-grade after all. Preoccupied with his thoughts he almost missed the other bot’s response.  
      
 “It’s not safe yet, Quark”  
          
Perceptor blinked, shaken from his reverie, “Why are you calling me that?”  
      
He’d never been one to describe himself as an empathetic bot, but Perceptor found himself reacting with great pity. Even if he had tied him up, Brainstorm was still a friend. He’d seen how the other scientist watched him from afar. Like he was the ghost of someone else.  
      
“Brainstorm,” he paused, “I’m not—”  
          
“It’s okay,” Brainstorm smiled, “I know you don’t accept it. But you will,” a manic gleam brightened his optics, “I saved you, you just don’t know it yet. But you will, and then we can finally—” He stopped, stepping out of Perceptor’s limited sight.  
      
The war had done a number on them all. He didn’t blame Brainstorm, but he needed a ticket out. Quietly, Perceptor inspected the locks. They were well-built, soldered on in multiple tactical spots. Brute strength was unlikely to be a successful option.  
      
Next he attempted accessing his internal comm systems. Ultra Magnus would surely have something to say against holding another against their will. More than likely an entire addendum of things. After a second, he added Ratchet and Rung to the line. Whatever Brainstorm was up to, he was clearly in need of some form of medical attention.  
      
Scrawling a terse message, he hit send only to be slapped with an, “undeliverable” error. Perceptor’s head throbbed in annoyance again. Brainstorm must have set up the anti-communications cone. He cursed inwardly. He’d built the device himself. It had given him some well deserved privacy to focus on an extremely time sensitive project involving metalico degradation in phase sixers. How Brainstorm had gotten his grimy little mitts on it, he could only imagine.  
      
Perceptor twisted in his confines, trying to catch glimpse of said other bot. Brainstorm had wandered out of his limited scope and been ominously quiet throughout the last few breems. Cricking his neck, Perceptor could see his back, wings fluttering in a flurry of eager anticipation. He appeared to be mixing some sort of concoction with several swift churning motions, though what exactly Perceptor couldn’t only guess.  
      
Giving up, he rolled his neck back into a moderately more comfortable position. Whatever was going on he’d just have to bide his time, collect data, and wait for Brainstorm’s next move. With any luck, he could convince the flier to release him, or at the very least maneuverer himself into a more advantageous position. One that didn’t involve the barbaric use of manacles.  
      
Brainstorm returned, humming, as he clipped a large metal canister into a spray jet, he tested the nozzle with a few short spray bursts. Perceptor blinked, temporarily stupefied at the turn of events. As a scientist, he prided himself on his deductive reasoning skills and clean-built logic trees, but this made little sense even to his advanced processors. Was he planning on painting something? This hardly seemed the optimal time. Still Brainstorm’s cortex worked in bizarre manners, even when he was firing on full cylinders. Admittedly this did not seem like one of those times. Perceptor eyed him warily.  
      
Satisfied with his tests, Brainstorm sat the airbrush down, retrieving a tin of balm and cloth in it’s place. Saturating the cloth in the creamy mixture, he scooted a chair over, straddling it.  
      
“You’re going to look just great, Quark,” he beamed, beginning to apply the coat to Perceptor’s lower calf with firm circling motions. Perceptor sighed, trying to ignore the overpowering scent of solvent assaulting his processors. Brainstorm’s optics were bright and manic, but showed no dilation. No mind-altering substances then.  
      
“I’m not Quark,” he said, annunciating each word with a sharp staccato. Perhaps he could still talk some sense into the other scientist.  
      
Patiently, as if talking to a skittish sparkling he pleaded, “Come on, Brainstorm, just let me go. We can leave together, figure this out, talk to Rung. I’m not upset, I promise, but you need to let me go.”  
      
“Not yet.”  
          
His spark pounded, he’d not been expecting a reply, “What?”  
“You’re not Quark. Yet.” Brainstorm said, “But you will be.”  
      
“Brainstorm, what are talking about?! What are you going to do?” Perceptor asked, panic growing exponentially.  
      
Brainstorm ignored him as he continued working his way up Perceptor’s leg. And, oh slag, if he wasn’t getting dangerously close to Perceptor’s valve panels. Perceptor shifted, coloring slightly at the thought of foreign hands that close to his valve. Caressing, lovingly. Perceptor banished the thoughts with a shake of his head. He needed to focus on escaping. Brainstorm was a brilliant scientist, but not known for his outstanding ethics. The longer he remained, the higher the chances he tried something truly crazy. Especially if he thought Perceptor was his deceased love. If only he could get his hand’s free.  
      
“You know, this would be easier for us both, if you’d just play along, Quark,” Brainstorm said, nonchalantly smearing a large glob of the waxen cleanser.  
      
The massaging movements circled closer and closer to his inner thighs and suddenly Perceptor's mouth felt dry. What was wrong with him? His spark pounded as Brainstorm inched nearer. Just a little closer. His valve clenched in preparation.  
      
But Brainstorm’s touches remained professional, as impersonal as a medic check-up. Perceptor’s stomach flipped in a strange twinge of disappointment. Had some small part of him wanted different? He deleted the thought train with vigorous self-disgust. Whatever Brainstorm had dosed him with must still be lingering in his systems. It had to be. Lost in those thought, Perceptor barely registered the remainder of the cleansing, only looking up when the gentle touches ceased.  
          
Brainstorm stared down at him, lifting the airbrush with flourish, “Now, we have to update your colors.”  
      
Perceptor watched mournfully as his stark autobot red disappeared under pale blue. Had the circumstances been better, he’d have loved lecturing Brainstorm on his methods. No primer coat? Really, did he want the red to show through? He grimaced, this really shouldn’t be the issue here, but everything still felt foggy and his concentration kept wandering away.           
      
Next came a creamy white smothering his crisp black like a blanket. Perceptor resisted groaning. Great. Now every scuff and single spec of debris would be 500% more visible. There was a reason few bots indulged the color post revolution. Whatever, it wasn’t like he couldn’t repaint himself after he was free. Right after kicking Brainstorm’s aft for putting him through this, that was.  
      
Brainstorm stepped back, observing his handiwork with a critical optic. Satisfied that it had dried, he set to work with a coat of sealant. This time Perceptor did groan. Leave it to Brainstorm to forget the primer, yet somehow remember the sealant. The spray laid sticky and heavy, and despite his best efforts Perceptor fidgeted.  
      
“Stay still,” Brainstorm chided, when Perceptor continued twitching, fixing him with a stare, “You’re going to smear it, and then we’ll have to start all over.”  
      
Perceptor immediately halted. Primus forbid. He wasn’t sure how much of this he could take, but at least for the moment Brainstorm, seemed enamored by him, maybe he could use that to his advantage somehow.  
      
“Hey, Brainstorm? Now that I’m repainted, do you think you could, perhaps, loosen these manacles? They’re starting to chafe, and I’m worried they might rub off the top coat,” Perceptor slipped the lie in with honied words, hoping he was convincing enough.He was not a particularly skillful actor, but perhaps desperation would mark an improvement.  
      
Brainstorm’s brows furrowed, servos reaching towards the chains. And stopped.  
          
“I don’t think you’re quite ready yet, Quark,” he said, pulling back his hands, tilting his helm. Perceptor could have strangled him. So close!  
      
“M-maybe, just loosen them?” He tried.  
          
“Quark,” Brainstorm’s warning was low, but quickly softened , “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Never again.”  
      
Perceptor snarled, temper flaring. His protoform was cramped and sore, his helm throbbing and foggy, and now his paint felt tacky and wrong. He wrestled with the bindings, clinking them violently, “Have you finally lost what’s left of your mind? If this is some sort of practical joke, it isn’t very funny! Let me go!”  
      
Compassion was swiftly morphing into righteous indignation. How dare Brainstorm put him through this slag. After all he had done for him, helping him with projects, defending him from Rodimus. Gnashing his dentae, he thrashed within his confines, metal digging into sensitive protoflesh. Despite his best efforts, the berth remained unmoved, rocky in it’s betrayal. Perceptor scowled, giving it one last violent tug before conceding.  
      
 “Why won’t you get it through your fat head?! I’m not Quark, I’m never going to be him, Brainstorm! If that’s what you’re waiting for, then you’re going to have to keep me chained up here forever because it’s just not going to happen!”  
      
Brainstorm looked stricken, and for one terrible nanosecond Perceptor thought he would strike him. But as quickly as the moment came it left. Without nary another word, he left, abandoning Perceptor to the solitude of his prison.


	2. In which Perceptor underestimates and Brainstorm rants

Perceptor drummed his servos against the surface of the berth, resisting the urge to scratch. The paint still hadn’t melded into his coding, and the resulting feedback kept spitting irritating niggles throughout his sensor net. At least his helm ache had settled. He grimaced, ignoring another tingling sensation. Where had Brainstorm even found a professional grade airbrush? They hadn’t docked in nearly twelve decaorn, planning ahead was hardly his style.

The medbay stocked one for touch-ups, but stealing from Ratchet seemed foolhardy, even for Brainstorm. His fingers traced thoughtfully over a uneven patch. Some of the more fastidious members of the crew kept their own brush sets. Mirage had even started scheduling styling appoints, converting his bar into a make-shift studio. Though no reports of theft had recently been recorded. Probably nicked it from Sunstreaker or one of the others then, he thought, scratching a large peel down his forearm.

Perceptor’s optics widened. The airbrush! What an imbecile he was! The tool lay abandoned, cord wrapped haphazardly around the berth leg. Tantalizingly out of reach. Perceptor strained. He needed that brush. With it in his possession, he could break down the pieces, reassemble them to something useful. Something escape-worthy. He stretched, extending his pedes as far as possible, just barely grazing the blasted thing. Just a little farther. He strained harder, throwing his whole torso into the attempt. There! His pede scratched the lorn brush. Pressing his foot down against the wire, he drug it closer and closer in short, uneven bursts, almost loosing it twice in his haste.

Perceptor worked deftly, checking the door after every swipe. His leg muscles burning in protest, as he drug it laboredly up the berth’s side. Finally, with shaking servos, he grasped the brush. It was a sleek model, streamlined for automated perfection. Nary a seam line to be found. He ran his fingers over the brush, searching blindly for a loose seam, screw, anything that could be of use. His finger drug over an indention, hidden under the trigger. Aha!

It was that moment the door swung open.

An oblong box with a little bow was clutched in Brainstorm’s hands as he entered the room. His good graces returned, he was humming, a merry shanty rhyme (no doubt learned from Whirl if the lyrics were anything to go by).

Perceptor froze, airbrush in hand.

“I brought you a present,” Brainstorm purred, pulling off the ribbon, completely oblivious to Perceptor’s plight. Perhaps he could use it as a weapon, a bludgeon of some sort. No, that would never work. With his servos manacled, achieving optimal swing velocity would be virtually impossible. That left one option.

With a distinct lack of grace, he shoved the tool into his subspace, slamming the portal closed with an awkward one-handed shove. He flinched at the resulting rattling of chains, body tensed in preparation. But Brainstorm, still preoccupied with his gift, failed to notice. Perceptor exvented. 

Had he really not noticed that? It wasn’t exactly a subtle. The sound alone should have raised alarm. He stared at Brainstorm with horrified fascination. No wonder his experiment error rates were so notoriously high! Would Brainstorm have even noticed if he was gone? This was ridiculous. To think he’d been held-captive by such an absent-minded, doddering fool. His field flickered with embarrassment. He’d never live this one down.

Attempting to arrange himself into some semblance of composure, Perceptor directed all further observation towards his captor’s fumbling. Though loathe to admit it, he was intrigued. The box was just about the right size for a necklace, maybe a stylus. Primus, he hoped it wasn’t jewelry. Seeing his curiosity Brainstorm, propped the box up in one hand, revealing it’s contents in a pompous gesture. 

One long, silvery needle glistened.

“Just a little something I whipped up. Chromedome helped.”

Perceptor’s jaw dropped. Chromedome? There had always been dark rumors swirling around the mnemosurgeon, but to think he would willingly engage in such a plot was absurd.

“Not knowingly, of course,” Brainstorm continued, tearing open a disinfectant pad, “But he’s easy to get drunk and—Oh hey, Quark! Did you know the password for his data terminal is—” he cleared his throat, “Well, anyway, don’t tell Rewind.”

He tapped the plunger, releasing any bubbles, “Mnemosurgery isn’t something you can just pick up overnight. Even if you are me. It requires a lot of dexterity and mental stability. And frankly I didn’t have the time or patience for it,” He gave Perceptor an even look,”I think we both agree, I’ve waited long enough.” 

Brainstorm’s optics twinkled with pride, “So I bettered it.”

“You _bettered_ mnemosurgery?” Perceptor raised a brow. If the thought of Brainstorm plus mnemosurgery hadn’t been so terrifying, he’d have been impressed. Scratch that. He was terrified AND impressed. And, oh so, probably dead. Messing around with somebody’s mind was dangerous. The psychological ramifications alone would be innumerable, and that was if he survived the physical act. One wrong jab, and forget Quark, he’d be a drooling mess on floor in zero time flat.

Perceptor jumped as Brainstorm’s fist hit the wall, face turned in an ugly sneer, “Oh?”

“Oh, now you’re interested in what I’ve been working on!? I’ve been hinting for decaorns, just HOPING something I did, would interest you enough for you to take your head out of your aft and pay attention to me! Fine!” He threw up his hands, stalking across the room, drawing in so close their noses almost touched.

Breath hot on Perceptor’s cheek, he spat, “Fine, I’ll tell you _everything._ Every. Single. Slagging. Detail. Then, maybe, for once, you’ll acknowledge my expertise. Give me the praise, I so deserve.”

Perceptor blinked. Apparently he’d said the wrong thing. Coolant condensed on Brainstorm’s plates, as he panted, drawing in large vents of air. Running a hand over his face, he regained his composure.

“Like I was saying mnemosurgery requires extensive psychological knowledge. This formula is very special,” he boasted, “Most mnemosurgeons use their needles to physically tap into the brain module, manually connect or disconnect synapses. This formula bypasses the need for physical manipulation. It was created custom-built with you in mind, Quark. Artificially recreated: all your memories, character traits, little ticks and quirks. Just like injecting a vaccine, except the antidote is memories!”

He paused, “Obviously, I couldn’t add all your memories without the aid of an actual mnemosurgeon, I just don’t have the access without directly injecting into your brain module. But I think I’ve gotten all the most formative ones. All the ones of us.”

Perceptor laughed.

He’d survived a lot of slag. A war’s worth of horrors. Perhaps too many, to be brought down here, captured by a mad friend in a glorified storage closet. But wasn’t that always how things ended? With someone you used to know.

He raised his chin, he’d fought his fight, “Do it.”

 

 


	3. In which Energon is eaten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short Chappy, but it had an organic-feeling ending that felt like a waste not to end with

The muted glow of stars filtering in through the observation window greeted him as he awoke. Perceptor stretched, swaddled in a thermo blanket and hazy aftermath. He yawned. Aftermath? Of what he wondered. Batting away the thought, he snuggled deeper into the plush pile. For once in his function, there was nothing urgent required of him and he was content to allow his mind wander. In the distance the muffled sound of a holoscreen played, light laughter of a daytime talk show absorbing the silence.

He pulled the thermo blanket off with a content sigh, sitting up. The room contained few personal touches, a souvenir here, Polaroid there, but was warm and white. Natural light flickered through the observation window casting shadows on the walls. Perceptor watched the patterns twinkle and wink. Had he been doing something? Having absolutely zero recollection of where he was or why felt like it really should have had a higher impact on his mental state. Instead it was oddly freeing. Like drifting on a cloud or floating in nothingness. He wriggled in the berth, allowing the organic material to slide over his protoflesh, silky and divine. Another peal of televised laughter rang from the other room. He groaned, burrowing deeper, he should probably figure out what was going on. Make sure someone hadn’t accidentally rewired gravity polarity, reanimated corpses, or something equally stupid.

Folding the blanket, Perceptor sat it at the foot of the berth, before crossing the room. The adjoining room’s door was ajar revealing a living area of sorts. In it another mech sat on the couch, tinkering with a circuit board, the table before him littered with spare parts, nuts and bolts. A glass of energon sat precariously close to a beaker of acid. Adding to the din, a hand-held radio chirped out Cybertron’s Top 40.

Perceptor observed the other mech. His back was turned, absorbed in his work, occasionally laughing along to the host’s pitiful stabs at humor.

The corner’s of Perceptor’s mouth turned up. How had he never noticed Brainstorm’s subtle sheen? The perfect ratio of smooth matte and high-gloss. And the way his optics lit with keen insight. Perceptor’s mouth dried. 

“What’s up, Quark?” He asked, optics not leaving his work.

Perceptor froze, energon draining from his face as his memory core helpfully booted up the last few orn’s events. Brainstorm. The plot. The needles. Quark. Energon roiled in his tanks threatening to spill over and for one awful second the room span. 

Referring to Perceptor as naive would be incorrect, nor would anyone ever call him slow. This sudden Brainstorm infatuation were the definite results of experimentation. Brainstorm’s theory had somehow contained merit, even if it hadn’t totally succeeded. He was under no misconception of who he was. Still the knowledge did little to detract from his burgeoning affection. Primus help him, even the minute twitches of his wings, hiked high with trepidation, were endearing. 

Belatedly, Perceptor realized he’d been standing there, mouth agape in the room’s dead center. His cheeks colored. How long could he stand here, stupefied, grappling with this onslaught of mistrewn emotions before Brainstorm assumed cortex damage?

Brainstorm’s brow furrowed, “You feeling alright? You look a little pale. Why don’t you sit on the couch? I’ll warm up an energon!” 

Brainstorm steered him to the couch, before scurrying to the connecting kitchen, setting a kettle to the burner, back once again turned.

He could run. The thought tore wild and unbidden through Perceptor’s mind. The door was only a few feet away. Oblivious the holoscreen played a jaunty jingle on the benefits of anti-rust lubrication. _He should run._ The kettle whistled. But Brainstorm’s couch was oh so comfy, and there was to be energon. He wouldn’t want to be rude. After all one glass couldn’t hurt. The bitter-sweet scent of Energon wafted from the kitchen.

“Do you have any sugar crystals?” He asked.


	4. Brainstorm watches a regatta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow, I regret not writing this whole thing in Brainstorm's perspective. He is so much easier to write (even off his rocker)

 

Brainstorm was practically exuberant. He rubbed his servos together, this was going _way_ better than he planned. Quark was in his suite. His suite! He snuck a furtive peek at the bot on his couch. Quark sat blankly, occasionally kicking his feet. And he wasn’t even trying to run. Always an encouraging sign. He threw the cube onto an old silver tray, wiping off a thin layer of dust with his elbow until it shone. There, perfect. He bustled back towards the living area, cubes sliding in his haste.

“Alrighty, Quark, I grabbed two kinds, couldn’t really remember which was your favorite…” he asked, trailing off. 

Lies. Total lies. He knew e _verything_ about Quark, what he didn’t know he studied voraciously. Quark drank his energon one way: lukewarm (gross, but everyone had a tragic flaw) and topped with a sprinkle of rhodium cinnamon sugar (presumably to cover said disgusting lukewarminess). 

“…So pick whichever one looks best to you,” Brainstorm angled the tray towards him. Perceptor was a tricky bot. Brainstorm wouldn’t put it past him to try and trick him into lowering his guard. Which was precisely why, the other recipe just happened to be a Percy original. Ice cold, like his heart, with a bitter, black blend, also like his heart. Seriously, did all microscopes have zero tastebuds?

“Quark?” He asked, noticing hesitation.

Quark’s back was ramrod straight, optics wide. His servo wavering between the two cubes. Of course, picking the “wrong” cube, didn’t necessarily mean deception. It could simply be improper integration of memories or insufficient time to absorb. He patted his subspace. Good, still there. He’d prepared two doses of the concoction. He’d learned from past experience, it was significantly easier to adjust a dosage higher, than to overshoot and overdose a subject. 

Trailcutter still hadn’t forgiven him for that one time. Whatever, who wouldn’t want to be able to communicate with Spark Eaters? Sure, they had no more Spark Eaters to test it on and it came at the cost of workable kidneys, but what great scientific discovery wasn’t made without crippling sacrifice? That dialysis machine worked fine!

Quark grabbed the lukewarm cube and Brainstorm settled back in. Selecting the unchosen drink he took a sip, grimacing at the flavor. His eyes flickering back towards the holoscreen. In truth he wanted nothing better than to observe Quark, drink in his entire essence, but he was a skittish mech, and spooking him would only create complications. Besides, he had all the time in the world.

Exhaling, he reclined. The mechs on the holo was competing in some bizarre form of galactic regatta he would have found fascinating in normal circumstance. The Iaconian team was in fits, as the Praxians caught a solar flare surging their ship towards the finish. That wasn’t even getting started with the team from Tarn who had in the madness somehow constructed a laser cannon with gatling properties.

A warm body pressed against him. Brainstorm froze, cube halfway to his lips. Quark had sidled over, draping an arm arround his kibble, tussling a wing. 

“Uh, Quark, whatcha doing?” Brainstorm was ashamed to note the quake in his vocalizer.

“I’m sorry. You just look so handsome, I couldn’t stop myself,” he replied breathily, stroking Brainstorm’s face with a delicate stroke. 

Brainstorm’s vents perked up. This was a new development. He had expected to have to woo Quark. Quark pursuing him, was in turn a pleasant surprise. Chalk another one up to his amazing genius. Too bad, there was no one around to gloat at.

Brainstorm’s optics fluttered closed, as the gentle caresses continued. He could get used to this. They’d take turns, massaging each other after long days spent at the lab. Working in tandem. Together they’d develop the greatest guns the galaxy would ever see. An invincible team.

A blinding pain surged through him. Brainstorm howled, bucking wildly. Quark was thrown from his perch on the couch, as Brainstorm pawed at the white hot pain. A pulsating lump was already forming around the back of his helm. What in the pits? Sprawled on the floor Quark lay in a trembling mass. In his right hand he clutched…his airbrush?

For a few precious moments Brainstorm thought he’d been struck so hard his cortex was damaged. But then his eyes narrowed. The end of the metal brush was stained with a smattering of oil. His oil. The little scraplet had tricked him!

Perceptor stared up at him with wide optics, then like a petro rabbit dove for the door. Brainstorm roared, tackling him around the legs. The two rolled around the floor, locked in desperate battle. Perceptor landed a flurry of kicks, but Brainstorm latched on, pinning him on his back.

“Let go!” Perceptor growled, attempting to bite, before Brainstorm yanked his hand back.

Wow, he was really starting to understand that whole Wreckers thing, Percy was a real Primus damned mechanimal to grapple with. With a grunt, Brainstorm launched all his not unsubstantial weight against Perceptor’s scope grinding it to the ground with a sickening crunch. Perceptor gasped, blinded with agony. Holding him down with one servo, Brainstorm began desperately rooting around his subspace. Where was it? That second dose was in here somewhere. C’mon, c’mon.

That was one someone knocked. Brainstorm stiffened. Of all the Primus forsaken times for a guest! 

“Little busy!” He barked at his unwanted visitor, “Come back later!”

A huff was heard through the door, “You’re always busy. C’mon, it’s just a quick question and then you can go back to doing whatever the pit you do in there all day.”

“I already subscribe to the Cybertronian Times,” Brainstorm said, cramming a hand farther down Perceptor’s throat than he thought possible.

There was a pause, “This is ridiculous! Brainstorm, come to the door. I refuse to talk through it.” 

Perceptor threw all his strength into a flip, sending Brainstorm rolling away. The jostling unearthed needle number 2 from his subspace and careful not to stick himself, Brainstorm scooped it up.

“Brainstorm, I’m serious! If you don’t open this door in two seconds, I’m overwriting the—“

Brainstorm tackled Perceptor, who had managed to drag himself to the door, clamping a hand over his mouth, “NOPE! Crucial moment of experiment. Huge biohazard! You don’t want to come in here right now,” he grasped the needle, plunging it deep into Perceptor’s veins, “Nasty stuff! Really! Give me a few nano to contain this mess, and I’ll be right out.” 

He held down Perceptor, watching the fight drain from dim optics. Then looping his servos under Perceptor’s armpits, he drug the bot behind the couch. Really. Quark was lucky, he was such a catch, dealing with Percy’s shenanigans was really starting to wear him out. Lovingly patting the sleeping bot’s face, he straightened. He gave himself and the room a once over. Good, everything neat and in place. Putting on his best face, Brainstorm opened the door.

 


	5. Brainstorm gets what he wants--Bad Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to write a dark fic, I said and then I wrote this

Quark was starting to get sick of such intimate views of the floor. Groaning, he propped himself up on his elbows, picking lint off his lens.This time he appeared to be wedged behind a sofa. He wished he knew how he kept getting himself into these predicaments. They were starting to get old.

It was tempting to ask Brainstorm. His annoyance was rapidly outweighing the embarrassment and despite the inevitable teasing he’d receive, his conjux was quick of mind and sure to have a solution to his odd sleeping habits.

His rumination was interrupted by the sound of voices, deep in conversation. Quark dialed up his audios.

“…haven’t a clue,” Brainstorm said, “Have you checked the lower labs? Sometimes he hangs out there in alt mode. Likes to pretend he isn’t sentient. ‘Course, now that I think about it, that might just be to get away from me.”

The other bot snickered. Taking advantage of the distraction, Quark peered over the couch, attempting to catch a peek at his partner’s guest.

He was a lanky looking bot with wide set shoulders and the look of someone perpetually unhappy.  And oddly familiar.

The mystery-bot continued, “Well, if you see him, let Magnus know. He’s practically blowing a gasket. Something about ‘Ceptor not clocking in the last few orns and the decay of social courtesies? I’m not really sure, Rachet gave him a sedative after that.”

The two chuckled. Quark risked another peek, their backs were turned, giving him ample opportunity to shuffle his way out from behind the couch and—

Lanky turned around, optics lighting on Quark, freezing in shock.

“What the? Why is he behind the couch?! Brainstorm?” He demanded, pointing an accusatory finger.

Quark tensed. If only he knew (seriously, he’d like an answer as well). His optics darted to Brainstorm, who looked about two steps away from full-blown panic attack. No help there. 

“I dropped a lens,” Quark deadpanned. Not great, but a serviceable lie. Lanky looked clearly unconvinced, Brainstorm laughed hysterically. Quark cast a worried look at his mate. He really was starting to worry about him, Brainstorm had always been a tad high-strung. Maybe a sedative wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Oh, well, nice paint job! What have you two been—” the other bot thought twice about his query,“ —you know what, I don’t need to know. Um, I’ll just let Magnus know you’ve been, uh, busy. And not to disturb you.”  Quark blinked, Well, that was astoundingly awkward.

“Yeah, perhaps it’s best you left now, buddy,” Brainstorm said, escorting him to the door with a firm hand.

Lanky shot Quark one last curious stare, before whispering conspiratorially,“Nice, you two finally hooked up? About time—”

Brainstorm practically shoved him out the door, “Yup, now goodbye!” With that he slammed the door, practically taking off a few of the other bot’s digits in the process.

“Okay, but I want details. There’s an entire betting pool dependent on them,” came a muffled reply through the door.

“Go home or I’m never telling you anything!” Brainstorm shrieked.

Sighing Brainstorm, collapsed against the door, before staring at Quark in awe.

“You lied for me.”

Quark frowned, “What do you mean? I lie for you all the time. Of course the crystalline multiplier is safe, it’s been tested! No, Brainstorm hasn’t been raiding the supply closet for uranium ore. Why are you so surprised?” 

Brainstorm looked at him like he’d grown three heads.

“What?” He snapped. Tears welled up in Brainstorm’s optics. Quark gaze softened, he hadn’t thought he’d been that harsh. Brainstorm’s shoulders trembled.

“Hey, I’m sorry, Brainstorm. It’s just my helm is aching and for some reason I keep waking—” Quark took in the rest of the room,“—What did you do in here?! Fight off a the slag maker himself?” He straightened a lamp, surveying the carnage, “Look at this? It’s like you dumped the contents of the entire bookshelf onto the floor? And scratches! There’s scratches on the walls. We just repainted,” he wailed.

Reorganizing would take minimal effort, but the damage to the walls, and the dents in the shelving might never come out. Not to mention the deep gouges etched into the floor.

Brainstorm blubbered inelegantly. Quark looked up in alarm. Brainstorm had lost the battle, large drops of washer fluid poured down his face, scrunched up in anguish.

“Come’re you,” he said, beckoning to his wayward mate. Brainstorm nearly knocked him over, crushing him in a heavy embrace. This was more than a cross word said in anger, something was clearly up.

Quark cleared the sofa, sliding off the deserted remains of Brainstorm’s experiment. 

“Ouch!” Something sharp poked him, he dug through the parts, discovering a spent needle. Frowning, he snapped the clear cover over it, depositing it onto the table. Brainstorm continued bawling, servos wrapped tightly around him. As Quark held him, something niggled at the back of his mind. That needle, it was so familiar. It turnt around and around in his mind. And clicked.

“Aha! Now I remember!” He exclaimed, clasping Brainstorm on the shoulders, shaking him in excitement.

“W-what?” Brainstorm asked, optics wide and puffy.

“That bot! The one you were talking to earlier! His name’s Tumbler! We went to his wedding together. He was marrying that tall, solemn fellow. Turned into a plow. Thank goodness, that was driving me crazy!” He frowned, remembering more, “You made me sit next to Prowl.”

Brainstorm choked, laughing as he brushed away a tear, “Was that the second or the third?”

Quark thought for a moment, “Dare I say 4th?” Brainstorm snorted.

“Quark?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll always be my number one. I won’t let anything happen to you. Ever.”

Quark smiled, “I know.” Whatever had upset Brainstorm seemed to have settled. He knew his conjux would talk to him when the time was right. He snuggled into Brainstorm’s shoulder, making a mental note to properly dispose of the needle in the medical waste receptacle.

“Never again,” Brainstorm repeated.


	6. Good Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good ending. Or at least a better one?

Perceptor was starting to get sick of such intimate views of the floor. Groaning, he propped himself up on his elbows, picking a stray lint mote off his lens. Attempting to roll over he was met with solid resistance. Grumbling, he tried to roll over again only to be met with a fabric wall. Perceptor squinted at the mountain that was looking more and more couch-like per decasecond. No. He was actually wedged behind someone’s couch. Like some kind of forgotten credit! He kicked out his pedes with all his might levying them against it’s back. But the couch remained firm, unmoved in his attempt for freedom. This was ridiculous.

His helm pounded merrily as he struggled to free an arm. The gap was rather tight, it was surprising he’d fit in it in the first place. Having just managed to twist his spine back into place a stray error popped up on his display with a blip.

He moved to dismiss it. ‘Unknown Contaminants Isolated,’ the title exclaimed in crisp font. Perceptor frowned, aborting the dismissal, he pulled up the screen’s details. 

His Wrecker-grade firewalls were currently tearing through and isolating whatever sludge Brainstorm’s concoction was sloughing through his lines. Had been since the first dose. An upgrade seemingly well-worth the effort to develop. And Springer had scoffed at the upgrade, called it, ‘bloated slagware that only ate up processing power’.

“…haven’t a clue,” The sound of voices deep in conversation filtered through the room, “Have you checked the lower labs?”

Perceptor’s audials pricked up. That sounded like Brainstorm, but who was he with?

“Sometimes he hangs out there in alt mode. Likes to pretend he isn’t sentient. ‘Course, now that I think about it, that might just be to get away from me.”

Perceptor colored. What an absolutely absurd line of thought. Pretending not to be sentient! He really thought he’d been sneakier than that. The other bot snickered. Taking advantage of his distraction, Perceptor peered over the couch.

Chromedome’s shoulders quivered with laughter, optics sparkling with a rare mirth. Perceptor had never spent any large amount of time with the other bot. Their scientific fields rarely overlapped and neither of them were particularly social creatures. Their previous interactions had been tertiary at best.

Making himself known could have irreversible effects. Sure, Chromedome didn’t seem like a bad guy, but he was friends with Brainstorm. It more than made sense he would align himself with his friend should conflict arise.

And there were the rumors. Dark whispers of shadow play and strings of long dead lovers. Histories rewritten. No, revealing himself now would be nothing but a mistake. The risk was too high.

Chromedome collected himself, “Well, if you see him let Magnus know. He’s practically blowing a gasket. Something about ‘Ceptor not clocking in the last few orns and the decay of social courtesies? I’m not really sure, Rachet gave him a sedative after that.”

The two chuckled more, continuing their gossip as they headed to the door, “I’ll let you know if I see him,” Brainstorm said, ushering Chromedome out with a wave.

Chromedome leaned against the door frame,“Sure. We still on for next orn? Rewind’s selected some great choices this month. Some I haven’t even seen yet.”

Perceptor flung himself down, breath drawn taut, as Brainstorm’s eyes darted to the couch, “Mm, We’ll have to see. I’m kinda in the middle of a _project._ ” Chromedome laughed again, the door clicking closed behind him.

“I know you’re awake,” Perceptor’s stomach dropped, energon turning to ice in his lines, “Come out from behind there.”

Perceptor scrambled back, wedging himself further away. The drag of approaching footsteps echoed closer. Barely daring to a breath, Perceptor remained silent with an air of desperate defiance.

A sigh,“You’re only prolonging the inevitable.”

Perceptor buckled down, gears tensing in preparation. He’d only have one chance for what he was about to do. Just as Brainstorm bent down, he leapt up, vaulting the couch back. Brainstorm snarled, catching him by the legs and sending them both tumbling over. Crashing into the workbench, the two grappled, nut and bolts flying. Brainstorm rolled over him, pinning Perceptor down with his weight, servos constricting like a vice around the other scientist’s neck. His vision swam before him but Brainstorm bore down harder, choking him. Delicate metal bent as air rushed out.

Grasping blindly, Perceptor’s servos tightened around the closest thing he could find.The smooth metal of Brainstorm’s latest invention.

Perceptor leveled the gun resting it against Brainstorm’s helm with a clang. The grip around his neck loosened, allowing Perceptor to inhale long shaky breaths, optics watering. 

“I’ll—I’ll shoot!” He gasped in between huffs, “I really…huff…will.”

The barrel quivered. He didn’t want to. He’d never wanted to.

Brainstorm gave him an unreadable look, “You don’t even know what that gun does, Perce.”

“Kills people, if _you’ve_ made it. What else would it do? It’s a gun.” Had he been expecting Brainstorm to flinch, he’d have been sorely mistaken. In fact Brainstorm looked rather nonplussed. The war had been particularly brutal and drawn out. Even those in non-combative roles had amassed their sins. Perceptor was no exception. Killing one more would hardly tip the scale.

“So, do it,” Brainstorm sounded bored.

“W-what?” Perceptor asked.

“Pull the trigger, Mr. Badass Sniper. It’s the only way you’ll ever be free. Do it,” Brainstorm goaded.

Perceptor felt the weight of the gun in his servo. Heavy enough to be loaded. Brainstorm was of no threat to him now, even without the weapon. Collapsed on the ground, his wrist bent out at an awkward angle, shooting him would be unnecessary. It would be cruel. Like executing a surrendered enemy. He flipped off the safety. Brainstorm had tied him up, kidnapped him. Played with his mind. What he’d tried to do was why wars had been fought. Carefully he released the trigger guard, aiming the muzzle between Brainstorm’s optics. A single shot to the brain module. Quick. No pain. More than he deserved.

He’d done it millions of time before. Never this close though. Never without his trusty scope. This close he could see every minute tremor, the dead look in Brainstorm’s optics pleading for an end or maybe not caring at all, indifferent and vacant to his own plight. Who could ever really tell?

Perceptor lowered the gun in disgust, ejecting it’s magazine to the floor with a thunk and turned to leave.

“Looks like neither of us could pull the trigger.”

Perceptor didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. He was already almost halfway out. The door was tantalizingly close and Brainstorm still lay discarded on the floor, twisted like a stringless puppet. He hadn’t even attempted to stop his captive. 

Perceptor’s servo rested on the doorknob. Freedom, escape, a good wash, stood right beyond this door. A pitiful, morose sound warbled from behind him. A wry, stunted laugh.

Perceptor turned to the bot behind him, his captor, broken on the floor. He was going to regret this. He could already tell. 

Sliding down next to him, Perceptor drew his knees up close. The wheezing laughter hiccuped to a stop and Brainstorm sniffled. The two said nothing and the silence yawned on. Perceptor raised his head with a sigh, staring at the stains in the ceiling, “Tell me about him. He must have been something special.”


End file.
